This Post Brought To You By THREE Peanut Butter And Honey Sandwiches And Yes I Do Mean THREE

For your enjoyment, here is my Sunday in review.

Church was only one hour long today, on account of the "creche" that was going on all day in the cultural hall. Tell me, but do you know what a creche is? Creche creche creche. If you are living in our house then you are finding as many excuses to say "creche" during the day these days as is possible. "Creche" is French for "I Live In Idaho But I Am Still Cultured So Don't Call It Nativity." Did you know that? Only but when you are living in Idaho it is important that you pronounce it "crush," otherwise nobody will believe that you really are living in Idaho, and wouldn't that be a shame?

The basic idea behind a creche is that you get all your friends to donate their one token Jesus decoration in their seasonal Christmas decor so that everybody can go to church and see them all at once. It is actually a really lovely thing, and this particular creche had a full-size stable all forlorn set up in the primary room and also costumes! so you could pose your family in nativitly ways and get a picture. (Who would do such a thing, anyway?)

This is the part of my blog post where I tell you how there is lady in my ward who has three hundred nativities. Can you fathom this? I can now die in peace knowing that I know exactly what 300 nativities look like in one living room, as Betsy the Flying Potato and I were tasked with bringing them by the truckful from her home on Seventh to the church on Blaine on a Tuesday afternoon.

And anyway, one-hour church is an idea I can get my behind behind. If you know what I mean.

After church Andy Carman stopped by to graciously lend his artistic eye to the taking our 2009 Christmas Portrait. This was attempt number three at getting a decent picture for a Christmas card. You'd think that with just two of us in this majestic family that the chances we could get a good shot of both of us looking able-bodied at the same time would be pretty good, but we have been foiled, time and time again, usually by my nose (the cross I am called to bear in this lifetime) or by The Holbs's proclivities to hover his arm just past my shoulder, giving the impression that he is side-hugging me as well as some ghost sister-wife, and also today we attempted it with the dogs, so . . .

Sudden Subject Change!

During sleep-times I am like a sun with canine orbitals. I have been thinking about this a lot lately. At night in bed I am sandwiched by dogs and during the Sunday 3:00-5:00 nap hour if my eyelids so much as droop slightly while I sit next to the space heater I am suddenly sporting puppy saddlebags. There is something weird about these dogs and their need to be pillow-like. This afternoon I snuggled up to Barnaby, we really spooned, I had him in a head-lock really, and he lay there patiently like a stuffed teddy bear, like in actuality I was causing for all his little puppy dreams to come true. His head smells like grape jelly. Peter Pan had the consolation prize that is the between-the-legs nest. When I woke up I literally could not move for puppy bodily interference. It was as if they needed me to stay there so they could sleep on top of me and thus fulfill the measure of their creation. But I had Peanut Butter and Honey Round One to attend to, and unfortunately they were very much out of luck. But like I said, when I sleep I am a dog magnet.

Photographic evidence in 3, 2, 1.

In other exciting stories: I accidentally put my wedding china in the microwave to nuke up a cheese crisp (a Lovin family classic recipe) and suddenly it was the Fourth of July in the nuker! I watched the plate sparkle and pop as it turned before I came to senses and remembered that fires in the microwave are generally a bad idea. Oh boy was it festive!

Tonight the student stake put on a rendition of selections of the Messiah. I am generally opposed to the married student wards on account of they have way too many babies and that hurts my feelings, but I decided the Christmas Cheer could be worth a few moments of torturous jealousy, and also, personal growth. So we got all dressed up. We braved the snowy roads. (The Holbs braved them, driving like a maniac. Snowy roads turn me chicken, and that is an honest truth.) They did not let us sing along but it was just as well, as I surprised myself by crying all through it and my froggy alto would not have added much anyway.

Afterward we talked with some friends from the ward. Conversation turned to my solo next week in the Ward Sacrament Christmas program. I leaned over, filled with the Christmas spirit, to tell them the whole story, when my friend says this: "I hate that song," He said that! "No really, I hate that song. It's so maudlin." Can you even believe that? A few weeks ago it was their son that asked me the thing about the thing with the minimum wage and the college degree and the "How can you live with yourself?" Oh, but didn't I tell you that story yet?

Well, for the sake of my "pureness of heart" I will not tell you, except that I will tell you that I really hated eighteen-year-olds that day. I am still singing that blasted song and I am still loving those blasted friends. That is my decision and I am sticking to it!

But which Christmas card photo should we send? Your options are:

(a)

involves bikinis and/or snow

circa 2008

(do you guys remember that?!?)

(b)

involves a wise man and/or an angel

in said stable all forlorn

(c)

involves the snow and my house and/or the ghost of my sister-wife

also poopy dogs

Well?